A Tale of Two Rifles

Guffaw in Arizona posted this morning about his long affinity for an old revolver (Go. Read.), and that reminds me of a story. You just knew it would, didn't you?

When my parents married in 1950, Dad purchased a brand-spankin' Savage .22: a single-shot, bolt action rifle with iron sights. He handed it to me on my sixth birthday in 1961. My first lesson included a version of The Four Rules, and ended with me shooting old tin cans off of fence posts. The grin which formed that day hasn't really ever left, with one exception.

In 1974, the skipper of our destroyer decided that we all should qualify on various firearms. The first one they handed me was an M-14, far more powerful than anything else I'd shot up 'til then, and instructed me to shoot at the large coffee tin* floating off the starboard side. The shiny silver container would be easy to hit, if it were stationary. There was no hearing protection offered, at all.

The waves were in the two-foot range, that day, and I don't think I hit the tin at all. A large part of that was the hammer blows to my ears from the report of the M-14. I had no qualms about pulling the trigger, iron sights were no mystery, and I'd shot squirrels, so moving targets weren't an issue either.

But when I fired the first shot, I found out what real muzzle blast was all about. I fired five shots, and it was four hours before the ringing in my ears subsided. I later described it as being somewhat like being slapped in the head with a brick.

Later on, we fired 1911s, M-16s, and an M-60 used as an anti-aircraft weapon. But on those days, I had my ears stuffed with as much cotton as I could wad up & shove in there. It helped ... a little ... and I've been religious about using hearing protection ever since.

20 years ago, my dad gave me that old Savage .22, and I put it in the gun locker and promised it to my older daughter, when she was ready. Some years later, when things were not going as well, it was part of a wholesale sell-off of weaponry ... a long, sad story which I'll not relate. But I still owe her a rifle.

However, she's learned some things, too. When I most recently spoke with her about that, she said, "Never mind a .22, Dad. Can we get something with a little more oomph?" And so we will.

That's my girl.


* Navy coffee tins, in those days, were 12 to 14 inches square, and 18 inches tall, with polished sides.